Finally
by Margo Vizzini-Montoya
Summary: She had been aware of the heat, the attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface between them for a while now. She had been able to resist it. But now…
1. Point of No Return

**Finally**

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**Tagline:** She had been aware of the heat, the attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface between them for a while now. She had been able to resist it. But now…

**Warning: **Contains explicit sex. Not for kiddies or the easily offended.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own. All royalties and rights go to Markus and McFeely, Marvel, and ABC. But after such a teasingly short season with no guarantee of another, my muse demanded that I play in this sandbox too.

Enjoy.

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One: Point of No Return

It finally happened.

They had finished yet another mission, yet another stakeout, tracking the ghosts of the Leviathan organization in some city or another.

Peggy couldn't even remember which one she and Jack were in. There had been so many. First it had been Boston and then Philadelphia and then Detroit. After that there had been a slew of others including Atlanta, San Antonio, and Seattle. Now they might have been in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, New Orleans, or Pittsburgh.

No, it wasn't Phoenix. It was raining.

She and Jack were shedding their sodden coats in the tiny foyer of their two-room hotel suite when _it_ happened.

She tripped as she was toeing off her water-logged pumps. Her tired body slumped into his equally exhausted but no less firm and warm one.

Her hands automatically reached out and grasped his arms to steady herself. And with that contact, her tired, drained-to-deadbeat-status body came alive. Her senses went from dull to hyper-aware.

Every nerve in her hands was humming with appreciation for the feel of his well-defined biceps beneath his damp shirt.

Every nerve in her sensitive bosom was aware of how well her soft curves fit with his hard firm physique.

She was cognizant of solid shoulders that always seemed so tempting to lean on. Of blue eyes that burned bright and were now devouring her drowned rat looking self. Of lips that were – in the words of Angie Martinelli – _scrumptiously delectable!_ And of the goddamn heat that was radiating off of him, between them, that was making her heart pound and her normally orderly and organized mind dizzy with desire.

She had been aware of the heat, the attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface between them for a while now. She had been able to resist it. It was just lust after all, right?

But now, being so sapped of her normally bottomless well of strength and will-power…

With a pitiful whimper, Peggy Carter succumbed.

~A~

Agent Jack Thompson had been able to keep it professional between himself and his detrimentally attractive if highly capable partner for weeks.

At first, it had been easy. They focused on the mission and hunted down the Russian bastards and their arms-dealing suppliers.

But then…But then, their cover had changed from boss and ever-dependable secretary/assistant to husband and wife, which meant from two hotel rooms to adjoining rooms to suites, which meant occasionally seeing her hair down to seeing her more than occasionally in her dressing gown.

And Gods, was she gorgeous. All those goddamned, sinful curves.

Curves that were this very minute pressed oh-so-divinely against him. Curves that were well-supported by the tantalizing lacy bits that were discernible through her soaking wet white silk blouse.

Agent Jack Thompson might have been able to maintain his persona of condescending gentleman bastard of a partner and Deputy S.S.R. agent by reminding himself that he was no hero, no Captain America, if it hadn't been for her.

Her and her big brown eyes. Her and her soft and tempting red lips. Her and her bold taking of no prisoners.

She pressed in and leaned up, and he was a goner. He was a red-blooded all-American male after all. And most definitely, no saint.

~A~

Their kiss was like falling out of a plane.

The heady adrenaline rush. The jolt of fear. The flood of sensations. The refreshing burst of freedom.

His sensuous if chapped lips slid confidently across hers, while his hands glided across her waist and caressed up her back, pulling her closer to him.

And she let him.

She more than let him. She hurled herself headlong into that flood of sensations – his heat, his mastery of lips, tongue and teeth, his silky hair between her seeking tangling fingers, his spicy smell, and his very own unique taste of whiskey and bitter stale coffee.

The feel of the low primal rumble in his chest when she sucked hard on his lower lip to get a larger second helping of that mouthwatering combo sent shivers down her spine and out to every nerve-ending. She would not have been surprised if her formally wet limp curls were now a frizzy mess as a result.

Her surrender to this inevitable moment was exhilarating.

And then, it was beyond exhilarating. Instead of it being like falling through the bright blue sky, it was like falling down a mountain.

Jack went from demonstrating his masterful skills to trying to master.

And _that_ just wouldn't bloody do.

Their kiss went from slow and gentle and nibbling to hard and fast and biting.

She used her already off-balance weight to push him into the closet door.

He dug his fingers into her hip. She tugged forcefully on his hair.

He bucked his hips, rocking his growing not-a-gun-in-his-pocket appendage against her damp core. She ground back against him, pinning him against the door while trying to claw loose his offending tie.

They panted and cursed at each other as they tumbled from wall to furniture and back again in their game of one-upmanship, like two loud and vulgar-sounding pumas in heat tumbling down a tree-studded and boulder-strewn mountainside.

By the time they landed in one of the bedrooms, Jack's tie, vest, suspenders, and belt were gone. His shirt was untucked and mostly unbuttoned (or button-less as the case may be). They were both shoeless, but she was still in her stockings, garters, and peach camisole.

She had shoved him onto the bed and was now straddling him. While his talented tongue was exploring the edges of her lacy undergarments, she was exploring the texture of his battle-scarred skin and rippling muscles and the taste of his earlobe's succulent bit of flesh.

It was at this point that the G-man's inner-gentleman reared up its well-styled head and with Jack's lust-rasped voice asked, "Carter, are you … sure…?"

She pulled back and looked into the questioning blue eyes of what was once the bane of her existence and teasingly answered:

"Jack, if we are going to do this, you had goddamn better call me Peggy."

At his endearingly gob-smacked expression, she added with a diffident shrug, "Or Marge, if you prefer."

Before he could make a smart-arsed comment or protest, she silenced him with another soul-sucking kiss.

~A~

She was a hell-cat, a Spitfire. A surprise.

A part of him was still struggling to reconcile the idea of Captain America's girl being anything but a sweet virtuous woman.

Captain America's, the hero's, girl should not be this passionate, aggressive, _eager_ woman, straddling _his_, the coward's, hips, demanding carnal relations.

But she was the Agent Peggy Carter, he had come to know, respect, and desire. And that woman _always_ got what she wanted. Who was he to try to stand in the way?

Jack reached between them and unzipped his already unbuttoned pants before sliding his hand along Carter's – no, Peggy's thighs, up underneath her camisole, and passed her lacy bits to plunge his fingers into her pussy even as he thrust his tongue deep into her red-rimmed mouth.

He nearly lost control right there, like a fifteen year old virgin. She was so wet and tight.

He worked her, plunging his two fingers in deep, hard, and fast and then slowly pulling and dragging them out, curling them in as he did so.

He did that over and over and over again alternating between rubbing his thumb and flicking it against her switch that turned all the pleasure lights on.

And pleasured she was. She rode his hand and whimpered and sucked on his invading oral appendage just like her quim eagerly sucked on his invading digits.

And just when she was about to crest over the edge, he removed them, grabbed her hips and drove into her.

It would have been Nirvana to him, to have this woman wrapped around him as she was – except for the facts of her mewl-gasp of pain that she tried to muffle in his neck and of the unexpected sensation of a barrier giving way.

"Marge? You're a – ?"

She dug her scarlet-lacquered nails in and growled out, "Shut up, Thompson, and use that obnoxious mouth of yours in more productive endeavors."

It was hard to argue with Carter in the best of times, and well, whether this was the best of times or the worst, really depended on a person's point of view.

His included Peggy Carter's well-endowed and pert rack.

Again, who was he to argue?

~A~

Peggy had been so close to completion that she had forgotten to warn him of a very significant detail.

And then when he had rammed through that detail with his thick shaft, it had been the most painful and effective figurative cold shower she had ever experienced.

Judging by his reaction, it was probably a good thing that she had not informed him or they would have never had gotten this far.

She was terribly afraid that they would be going no further, but then he began to nuzzle at her breasts.

He licked, nipped, massaged, and sucked them. At first through the silky, lacy slip, and then not.

His sinful mouth on her bare sensitive tits distracted her and his gentle pumping of her core loosened her, and both rapidly re-ignited her fire.

Their love-making from that point on wasn't as rough nor was it about being a dominance game. No, with him sitting on the edge of her bed, stockinged feet flat on the floor, and her straddling him, they were more like equals.

He controlled the rhythm; she, the depth. A slow but steady and pleasant burn was started.

The feeling of him _finally_ being in her, of being full of him, of finally getting to communicate in deeds if not words what she felt for him was such a glorious relief.

She savored every sensation, especially his hoarse of gasp of "Oh, Pe-peg-gy!"

It was that moan of aching need that sent her over the much desired edge.

She clawed at his back and bit at his lip as he attempted to swallow her own hoarse cry and tears streamed down her face.

After the final tremors ceased, the two of them laid sprawled across the bed, reveling in finally achieving a state of harmony that their relationship had hereto for never known.

She gave it ten minutes before his smirking prat-mouth ruined the moment.

~A~

Nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds later…

_Three…_

_Two…_

_One…_

"It's a good thing for once that Krzeminski is dead."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, or else I would have to cough up twenty bucks."

Her eyebrows rose.

His smirk spread.

She waited less than anxiously for the punch-line and was awarded with:

"You, Marge, are indeed a screamer."

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**A/N: **If you like, please, review. Constructive criticism always appreciated.

If you want more, I am considering writing something along the theme of 'His Red Reward'. Thoughts?


	2. His Red Reward

Two: His Red Reward

_"You, Marge, are indeed a screamer."_

~A~

For that prat-worthy comment, she slugged him in the shoulder before rolling over and staring at the ceiling. She didn't have much energy for anything more.

She was sore, yes, and still most definitely exhausted still. But for once she was blissfully mindless and care-free.

At one point in her be-numbed reverie, she felt Jack get off the bed and heard him putter around in the lavatory. She be-stirred herself just enough to straighten her camisole, remove her stockings and garters, and climb beneath the covers.

Her musings upon the sad starchiness of her current SSR budget quality sheets in comparison to the silky softness of her home's Stark budget sheets were derailed by the sudden dip of the other half of the bed, shifting of said sheets, and Jack's dry voice:

"Marge, if you are going to be a bed hog, you had better not have cold feet."

"You know, Jack, there is another bedroom j-just o-v-ver yon-der," she retorted mid-yawn, so her tone lost some of its clever causticness.

His response was to tug her closer so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, his arm draped across her back, and their legs tangled, murmuring, "Aces, but it doesn't have a gorgeous bed warmer like this one, so I'll pass."

There were so many responses she could make to this: _'Jack-ass', ''Gorgeous bed warmer', eh? I wish I could return the compliment,' _or _'Who would have thought that big bad Deputy Agent Thompson was a snuggler?'_

But she couldn't, because she finally lost the battle with the Sand Man.

~A~

In the morning, however, all the thoughts that she could have had – _should _have had come flooding in.

_'Oh my God, Margaret Carter, Jack? Jack male-chauvinist, Jack Thompson?'_

_'What would your Nana say?'_

_'How the hell are you supposed to work with this man now, Peggy? Especially, after you know what that sneering mouth can do? Has done? To your breasts?'_

She knew how she could work with the tosser, of course. She was goddamn Agent Peggy Carter, and if she could avoid killing him after months of taking his condescending lunch orders, she could avoid any other unprofessional behaviors as well.

She also knew what her Nana would say, and it would be something along the lines of if she was going to sin and have relations out of wedlock, why hadn't she done so with Steve.

And there was the real crux of the matter.

Part of her morning after regrets had to do with that very thing. Part of the reason for her tears last night had been because her first time hadn't been with him. There would always be that part of her that would mourn the loss of all those missed opportunities for 'firsts' with Steve.

But did she really regret the fact that it had been Jack who was her 'first'?

From beneath her lashes, she assessed the still sleeping man lying next to her, and she couldn't find any part of her that screamed or even whispered 'yes'.

For the longest time, she had thought that if she were to have any inner-office romance it would be with Daniel.

Daniel had been kind and understanding, during those pre-Howard months. However, it had become draining to see his eyes dim with disappointment each and every time she did not meet his expectations of what his ideal-version of Peggy Carter should be.

If Daniel had ever gotten up the gumption to make a move like Jack did last night, he would have worshiped her, and she did not want to be worshiped; valued, yes, worshiped, no.

Jack valued her, and he now treated her like an equal.

It was hard for a girl, even with walls as thick and as barbed as hers, to resist a man like Jack, a man who held her with such steady regard, who had a sardonic wit that challenged, ignited her and stirred her deep dark side, and who unabashedly loved his Gam-Gam. Not to mention he was, in Angie's words, 'a dreamboat'.

With all these qualities, it was a wonder she hadn't jumped on him before.

In fact, it was a wonder that she hadn't jumped him again this morning.

~A~

Jack woke to the feel of the cool air on his skin and then the sensation of a hot hand seizing Jack Jr., drawing it out of his boxers, and stroking it to full mast.

His startled grunt caused the ravishingly (and for once) disheveled-looking Carter to smirk at him.

And this is when he noticed that her full lips were a bright cherry red – a red that he could have sworn that he had soundly kissed off the night before.

"Carter, did you - ?"

Before he could finish, her bright cherry red lips descended upon him, enveloping his dick into her warm wet mouth.

He hissed, for part of him wanted to protest. He didn't expect this of her. In fact, he didn't expect this of any of the women he had been with.

Sensing his intent though, Peggy gripped his thighs holding him in place, and the larger part of him, the less honorable part of him let her have her way with him.

She sucked and swirled her tongue and gave the occasional moan that sent shivers up and down his spine. His Marge was no skilled veteran, but she pleasured him with all the confidence of a woman who knows she has the power to make or break him and the determination of one who sought mastery of all things, be it sharpshooting, code-breaking, or cock-sucking. And by God, he wanted to be the model this avarice student learned upon.

He grabbed her soft brown curls to help guide her, which caused her dark brown eyes to gaze into his questioningly.

Jack thought he might have given her soft reassuring smile even as he angled her head to allow her to take him deeper, but he couldn't be quite sure. He was distracted by the image of that vibrant shade of red wrapped around him.

It was hypnotizing to see his throbbing cock disappear past its carmine gateways and to occasionally see the tip of her pink tongue peak out past them as she teased him, licking his slit.

In and slow drag out. Twirl and lick. In and out, and clever fingers stroking the base and twisting, and palming and kneading his balls.

In. And the flattening of the tongue and the hollowing of her cheeks. And out.

Familiar pressure built behind his eyes. His back tightened, and then his balls. He tried to think of innocuous things – his Gam-Gam's apple pies, picnics, flying kites, but it was pointless. Apples were red. Table-clothes were usually checkered-red. The butterfly kites always turned into Chinese dragons, which are always red.

His hips began to jerk erratically even as her flushed cheeks hollowed, which was proving to be for the final time.

He managed just in time to do the gentlemanly thing and tugged her up and away. He only managed to get that half right, as he exploded all over that glorious chest of hers, ruining her peach-colored camisole, as the stains darkened into rosy-pink splotches.

The less than gentlemanly part of him was proud of that, like he had just triumphantly marked his territory.

And gods, what a prize. There she sat, face flushed, eyes bright, and her hair sweat-streaked and tussled. Her chest was heaving from her considerable and marvelous exertions, and her swollen lips were quirked into a smug triumphant grin of her own, for she knew that she had done good.

"Marge?" he asked with a half-groan, half-sigh, and then with more of a whine than he intended, "Do we have to be anywhere today?"

She chuckled lowly and softly, "No, not until this evening. I think we're catching a red-eye to Dulles. Or is it Dallas?"

Hearing a tired whine of her own creep into Peggy's usually calm and steady voice kicked him past his own lethargy to say vaguely, "Oh good, that gives us enough time."

And like a moth to flame…

"Enough time for what?"

"For me to order room service, fuel up, and then return the favor of your excellent wake up call."


	3. Intermission

Three: Intermission

Peggy had no idea what had spurred her on to do what she had just done. Only racy girls did that kind of thing without much coaxing from their partner, or so was the majority opinion of the girls who discussed such things at The Griffith.

But Jack Thompson made her _feel_ things. He made her feel disconcerted, off-kilter, out-of-control, and she was not one to be 'out-of-control.'

So when the impulse came, she seized the moment and seized him.

She hadn't known much about what she had intended to do, but she had spent enough time with men during the war, overhearing their conversations about the topic, and had recently had the misfortune of overhearing the opinion of one of Angie's fellow actress friends, that she had enough intel to wing it.

Sure, she had gagged a few times, grazed him accidentally with her teeth once or twice, had her nose get in the way, and hadn't used enough pressure or perhaps too much in the beginning, but she hadn't let that stop her nor did she let him.

She was a quick study and she had used his body's tells – his trembling and jerking, his grunts and gasps, and even his less than gentle tugs on her hair – to guide her.

And while his musky smell was a bit too heady, his seed was a bit too bitter, and it was disgustingly sticky all over her chest, she derived an almost euphoric satisfaction in getting him off in such a manner.

She had been filled with both pride and contentment upon seeing that boyishly blissful smile usurp what was his habitual sardonic expression.

She had done that. And she had _really_ enjoyed his babblings about the color red. Angie had been entirely too right in her assertion that men are visual creatures.

Peggy didn't get a chance to revel in her position of superiority for too long, because as soon as Jack had promised returned favors, she was all in a tizzy once again.

She hid her inner turmoil well though. While he ordered them food, she went to clean up. The suitcases that they had been abandoned were stored in the closet after personal items were retrieved. The clothes that they had tossed all willy-nilly about were collected and neatly folded. And she did a thorough freshening up in the powder room and ensconced herself in a bathroom robe by the time the food arrived.

Jack looked semi-presentable in his slacks and undershirt, but it was marred by the presence of his day-old stubble and a telling bruise just above his collarbone. It was the latter which the steward eyed knowingly even as he awaited his tip.

It was a look that did not go unnoticed by Jack, who judging by his glower had cut the lad's tip in half as a result.

After the door had closed, she let out an amused snort, observing dryly, "It probably would have been better if you had doubled his tip."

"What and reward his churlishness?" Jack scoffed in disbelief.

"Well, no. You could have encouraged his discretion. Now, he'll most likely tell all of what he observed." With a shrug she added, "Or, at least, that is the method to Howard's madness."

Her partner's scowl deepened at the mention of her friend, as it always did, despite his being cleared of all charges of treason.

Rolling her eyes, she headed for the room service cart, admonishing in her best schoolmarm-ish manner, "Oh, don't start. It's too early for petty jealousies and – "

"'Jealousies'? Really, Carter!"

" – and I'm too hungry. I am as ravenous as a pregnant heifer." She continued over his nonplussed spluttering. She was smelling the spicy scent of well-seasoned sausage and her mouth was watering. She hadn't realized how famished she was until then.

Lifting the lid of one of the platters, she let out a cry of delight, "Oh! And you ordered me bangers and mash! I have been craving it for so long. Thank you so much, Jack."

When he didn't respond, not even to chide her for her pathetic attempt at changing the subject from Howard, she looked up and found his face frozen in horror.

"Jack?"

Her voice brought him to, and he set down the plate that he had been holding mid-air, before rubbing his face that seemed to be flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Peggy. You said 'pregnant' and 'cravings', and it made me realize that we – that I had not, um… you know."

"Used protection?" she supplied matter-of-factly.

At his sheepish nod, she put on her best poker face so that she would not embarrass herself or him as she informed him, "No worries. I'm not at that stage of my cycle." And to take the limelight off of her and her womanly regions, she stated, "The real question is – are you, the considerably more experienced of us, _clean_?"

It took him a moment to catch on to what she was asking, but when he did, he flushed again, asserting with a curt nod, "Yes, yes, I am."

"Good," she replied with a brisk nod of her own, before dipping up her banquet.

They ate in an odd mixture of awkward and contented silence. Awkward because it was silent after all that they had just done and shared, and content, as the act of eating together without talking was familiar. They had often spent late nights at the office, pouring over reports while 'fueling' on pizza, and lately, on this grand tour of the nation as they hunted their quarry, they had broken their fasts together while sharing the New York Times, Washington Posts, and local Dailies between them.

She was just finishing off her tea, when he broke their communal silence with, "Just so you know, after this weekend, we will be using rubbers. I'm not going to be the bloke that sidelined your auspicious career by saddling you with a bastard."

There were so many responses she could make to that announcement, but the one that came was, "So there's going to be more…trysts…after this weekend?"

Her question had come out far more breathy and hesitant than she wanted. In fact, she had wanted to sound arch and challenging. But no such bloody luck.

"Do you want there to be?" was his equally less than certain reply.

How did they do this to each other? Make such normally confident, and in his case, cocksure personalities so unsteady and, well, vulnerable?

"Yes," she murmured, swallowing nervously even as she raised her chin defiantly.

"Then, yes, there will be," he finally answered. His blue eyes were filled with dark promises, and his voice was rough with desire, especially, when he stood up and held his hand out to her, growling, "Now, I have a vow to keep."

Her heart began to race. At first it was at his display of decisiveness, but then it was at the memory of his promise.

His vow of a favor returned.

Shit.

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**A/N: **A bit of fluff to tease until the next chapter: _Her Favor Owed._

Thoughts?


	4. Her Favor Owed

Four: Her Favor Owed

She stared at his hand. The sight of it outstretched in open invitation made her heart pound even more, her breath to come quicker, her adrenaline to pump.

She wanted to slap it away. She wanted to run.

She was in unfamiliar territory. Last night had been the heat of the moment. This morning, an impulse. This was planned. This, what they were about to do, was premeditated. She was once again off-kilter, and she did not like it, not one little bit.

Peggy was at war with herself. She wanted this, this connection. But she didn't want the vulnerability. She didn't think she could survive losing someone like she had lost Steve, and so she was terrified of what this moment represented.

But she didn't want to have another regret of missed opportunities. Steve had never made a move, but then neither had she. She didn't want to do that with Jack. She didn't want to be a coward.

So she took his hand.

He drew her up to him, and with a jaunty grin, he bowed over her hand, kissed it, and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, as he led her into the bedroom, saying, "This way, mi'lady."

Once they reached the foot of the bed, he turned to face her, whispering, "Do you trust me, darling?"

Without hesitation, she whispered back, "Yes."

"Will you then do as I ask, with no questions or needless protests, Marge?"

She glowered at him. Perhaps, she shouldn't have given him free reign to use his pet name for her.

Chuckling lowly, he amended, "Peggy?" At her nod of assent, he rubbed her shoulders lightly, reassuringly even as he added, "But, of course, at any time, you wish to stop, you just say – "

"Suspenders."

That earned her a raised eyebrow.

She ached her own, as she retorted, "You were going to suggest a safe word, weren't you?"

At this, he pulled her into him, his lean chest rumbling against hers as he laughed. When he was done, he leaned his forehead against hers and said, "'Suspenders' it is then. But, Carter, we are definitely discussing at a later time how long you have been thinking of the need for safe words and why _this particular_ one."

She opened her mouth to protest, probably needlessly in his book, but he cut her off with a kiss.

It was slow and tender and came on a mint and coffee-flavored sigh, and as she breathed him in, he raised his hands to gently frame her face.

She was a little bit mad at him for silencing her like this, so she nipped punishingly at him. But when he responded by pulling away, she felt bereft and mewed apologetically, chasing after him and pecking his bottom lip in an attempt to soothe the sore and offense.

With a soft hiss that sounded more like it was from pleasure than pain, he returned her kiss, making it more fervent, exploring her deeper. One of his slender but calloused hands slid up into her hair, holding her firmly to him, while the other slid down to her waist, as he guided her down to the bed.

Her knees hit the edge of the bed, and he eased her to a sitting position that swiftly shifted to her lying flat on her back with him hovering over her and their lips still locked.

She made to move her leg so that she could flip their positions, just like she did on the practice mats at the SSR's gym, but once again he pulled back. The hand at her waist went to her wandering leg, and the hand at her neck to her shoulder, pinning her in place.

"Nuh-uh," he scolded. "Not right now, darlin'."

Peggy did not like being at his mercy. She was a take charge kind of girl, but she was also a highly inquisitive one and curious to know what he was going to do next. So she capitulated again.

When he sensed her relax, the hand at her shoulder lifted and he began trailing his slender fingers along the skin at the edge of her robe. Its roughness against her soft flesh was a sharp contrast and sent a shudder through her body. His blue eyes smiled in knowing satisfaction, even as his mouth turned down into a mock petulant frown, observing, "You're just surrendering the battle, so you can win the war, aren't you, Carter?"

"Didn't an overly-conceited deputy once say that the most important part of my name was 'Agent'?" was her tart rejoinder.

He retaliated with the other hand, the hand that she had quite forgotten as the first was now trailing past her cleavage to the robe's sash, and with this other hand, he pinched her rear.

She let out a surprised gasp at this, and then another as the sash came undone and cool air met her heated skin, and then a third, as the look in Jack's eyes as he gazed at her body like he was ready to devour it. She didn't quite understand this, as she knew the body which was exposed and laid bare before him was blemished. There were scars, bruises, love handles...

But he didn't seem to see all this, or maybe he did. She didn't know, but with an almost choked whisper, he breathed one word: "Beautiful."

And then he and his in-much-need-of-Chapstick lips descended upon her. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her neck just below her ear, and he grazed along her collarbone. He trailed kisses down to her breasts, lavishing much attention to them, before once again resuming the trail down to her intimates, her blue lacy ones. But next time she and Angie went out shopping, she was going to pick up some red ones.

Although how she was going to do that without cluing her gossipy roommate into her reason for the acquisition, she didn't know.

Thus distracted by her inner-musings, she did not notice the disappearance of her final undergarment and was quite taken by surprise when she felt Jack's warm breath against her most intimate parts.

He was on his knees, his hands were gripping her ass, and his face was _right there_. He was ready to return that favor, but he was waiting expectantly, looking at her questioningly as if for some kind of signal.

She gave a brief nod, and he winked. Winked!

Her snarl of yet another 'needless' protest was turned into a hiss not unlike Jack's earlier one, as he thoroughly explored her. He started at the thighs, nipping and sucking them, most likely leaving territorial marks in revenge for hers on his neck. After that he nibbled on her outer lips, and then there was stroking and lapping and nuzzling. It was all quite pleasurable, and she found it very difficult to keep still, but…

But her overactive mind began to wander.

Here was Jack Thompson, her colleague, feasting on her feminine bits. How the hell was she going to – were they going to – was he going to interact with her in the office come Monday?

She could just see it now. Jack smirking at her as he asked for 'extra cream' in his coffee or a 'muffin' to-go or a 'Carter Special' when it was her turn to do the lunch-run.

And were they going to keep this a secret? Whatever _this_ was? Were they going to talk in secret code to arrange dates? Were they even going to go on dates?

Would he try stop her from going on missions again now that she was 'his girl'? Would the powers-that-be let them continue to work together if it was known that they were 'going steady'? Was that what they were doing?

He had said there would be more trysts. He had said that he didn't want to 'saddle her with a bastard'. Did that mean that all this was was trysts? An agreement to satisfy lust, to let off steam? Did Jack want kids? Did she anymore? Did she ever?

Maybe with Steve Rogers she had. But that had more to do with a pipe dream, the kind people in war wish for along with peace. There was no peace for her. She knew too much, wanted to do so much. And in so doing, had she become the much absurdly despised 'career woman'?

She was abruptly brought out of her existential crisis by the sudden stopping of Jack's ministrations. Without the pleasurable sensations, there was nothing to counteract the waves of anxiety she was feeling.

"Peggy, if I am doing something wrong, you gotta let a fella know," he chided teasingly. Although he made light of it, she could tell his pride was wounded.

"Oh Jack," she sighed as she sat up and scooted back until she was resting against the headboard. She patted the spot next to her and when he joined her, she continued with her apology, "You did nothing wrong. I just can't seem to let go."

"So it's gonna be 'It's not you; it's me', is it?" he quipped.

She growled in frustration, at her inability to express herself or his inability to understand or both. After several moments of clenching and unclenching her fists, she shifted her position so she could look him squarely in the eyes as she asked, "Why?"

"'Why' what?"

"Why do you want there to be 'more' between us and what does that 'more' meant to you?" she asked evenly, trying to reign in her fight-or-flight mode through deep slow breaths.

He looked at her dumbfounded and slack-jawed, like some cartoon character in the cinema. Eventually, he recovered to say with a sigh, "Wow, Peggy, you're usually so confident and sure of yourself, that I forget that you're just like any other girl and need your vanity stroked."

"And men don't need their egos stroked, Jack?" she snapped, making to get off the bed and away from him.

"Good God, Carter!" he exclaimed, stopping her with a hand to her shoulder. "Could you quit being a ball-buster so that I can answer your question?"

Before she could reply, he continued, "And needing to be appreciated and recognized is not a bad thing. I didn't mean to imply that it was."

Seeing this for the apology that it was, she settled back down and waited.

He took her hand in his and began fiddling with it, tracing the lines of her palm, mapping out the bones and joints. This made her smile softly. She knew if he could he would be standing with his hands in his pockets, his back guarded by the wall. That's what he did when he felt nervous or pressured.

Again, eventually he broke the silence to say, "That's what I like about you, envy it even, your natural self-confidence. You know who you are, and nothing and no one can gainsay that, because you _have_ done great deeds and they're the truth."

Her hand squeezed his in sympathy. His pain from the shame he felt surrounding the Navy Cross called out to her.

He squeezed it back, caressing his thumb across the back of her hand, adding, "And that's another thing I admire about you – your compassion. I think part of why I am such an ass to Sousa is that you always had a soft spot for him. One that I didn't think I could ever have."

He quit looking at her fingers to meet her gaze. His sad self-deprecating smile shifted into soft grin as he began to rattle off a list, one that seemed almost to be memorized, "And then there's your integrity, your loyalty, your smarts – the complete package: intelligence, clever wit, and sass – your bravery, your sense of style, your beauty. That and a million other reasons are why I want to be with you."

After that declaration, Peggy found herself to be a bit breathless and parched, necessitating in a hasty clearing of her throat before she managed to choke out, "W-with me?"

"Yeah, as _my _partner in every sense of the word, for as long as you will have me," was his earnest reply, and then with a shrug he added nonchalantly, "Or for as long as one of us manages to dodge that fatal bullet or knife in the dark."

The look that must have passed across her face at the mention of that possibility caused him to hastily continue, "But, of course, ideally, my dear Peggy, I would like for our end to be at some nursing home arguing over how many points, oh, the word 'quixotic' is in Scrabble."

"It's 26 points," she blurted for some absurd reason.

Jack shot her a look of disappointment that seemed to say, _'Is that really the take-away here, sweetheart?'_

"No," she breathed, answering his unspoken question. And then because she couldn't take it anymore, all the emotions that swirling – no, _roiling _– within her, she lunged at him. She just managed to get her free hand behind his head before it smacked against the headboard, as she claimed his mouth, claimed _him_ as hers.


	5. Possession, the Finale

**A/N: **To _CalypsoHunter, sBerry181, xpurplexbutterflyx, Kat, BoboMidorima, captainhookcaptainfreedom, _and guests... Thank you for your lovely reviews. May you not be disappointed.

Oh, and **Warning: **There be 'fondue-ing' ahead ; )

* * *

Five: Finale / Possession

When they broke apart to gasp for air, Peggy found herself full-on plastered up against his hard lean body, one hand fisted into his hair, and the other into what remained of his undershirt after her half-crazed attack. With her forehead pressed against his, she gasped out, "I want you... I want that …that future… I think I might – I might love it – love you too."

Her declaration was met with...silence. A heart-stopping pause void of all sound but filled with thick heavy momentousness.

And just when she thought that maybe she had gone too far...

He drew back to look into her eyes, questioningly curiously and a little indignantly, "Think? Might?"

She let out a little breath of relief. He wasn't running for the hills. And although she was tempted to make light of it all, to hide behind their witty banter, she refused to be a coward. She also refused to be anything less than honest. "Think. Might," she asserted. "And in time, with some convincing, I _might_ become more certain on the matter." And because she couldn't resist, she added challengingly, "But just remember, I said the 'L' word first."

His blue eyes darkened, and she could have sworn they pierced into her very soul as they searched her own. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he didn't push any further. Instead, his mouth turned up at the corners in a roguish grin, "You want me?"

He didn't say the 'L' word back. And that was okay. She didn't need him to. She needed...

"Yes."

It was his turn to lunge and to possessively kiss. He was hard and brutal, and he left no part of her unclaimed. His hands were everywhere, in her hair, down her back, up her sides, everywhere, kneading, stroking, caressing. She tried to give as good as she got, tugging at his hair, rubbing up against him, grinding her hips back at him, arching into his touch, tangling her tongue with his, but his assault was so overwhelming that eventually she surrendered and enjoyed the ride.

At the end of it, once again she was on her back with him hovering over her. His pants and its impressive bulge rubbing up against her bare damp skin as he pressed into her, holding her down and somehow with her hands pinned above her hand.

Any other person, any other situation, she would have fought against this, but with him, with Jack, she found that she wanted this.

And once again, Jack _saw_ her. He read her. And knowing that she needed this, needed _him_, he rose off of her, murmuring, "Don't move."

Without breaking eye contact, he quickly shucked off his clothes and walked – no, _stalked_ – over to her in all his bare-arsed glory like a lion hunting its prey.

"'Suspenders' still the word of the day?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Good. Now whatever you do, hold that position," he ordered, his eyes only breaking contact with her own to rakishly admire her outstretched and vulnerable form.

Because she trusted him and wanted him to know it, she twisted her hands up in the rough cheap and crumpled sheets to do as he asked.

Just like last time, he slowly worked his way to her center. But unlike last time, he started from the bottom and worked his way up. He massaged her feet, starting with the right and then the left. He massaged her calves too. Each time he was done with a leg, he would gently place it down and then lift the other, never letting his gaze leave her face, savoring each of her reactions.

She was a bit embarrassed at how vocal she was. There were moans and groans, gasps and whimpers. There was also a snort or two when he tickled her, which was always followed by a half-hearted kick of retribution.

After the massage he began kissing his way up her legs, starting at the ankle and then working his way up her calves, nibbling and licking. He tortured her at her knees, discovering that the back of her left knee was ticklish. (By that time, he had learned to dodge).

He reverently kissed the marks that he had made previously at her thighs and he also gave one to her mound, which was too near and yet not near enough to where she wanted him to be.

He then rose up, causing her to mew in protest. He tut-tutted, reminding her of her previous promise, even as he rolled her over onto her stomach.

From there he began to massage her back, kneading her shoulders and then working his way down her spine. How he made her feel both utterly relaxed and exponentially electrified, she would never know. He could have finished this ritual of his with the cliché 'Abracadabra' and she would not have laughed.

Afterwards, he showered her back with wet sloppy kisses, blowing across each one, so that she was trembling with shivers as her skin arousingly cooled after each warm puff of air. This was especially true when he paid particularly close attention to the dip in her spine. Anticipation luxuriously coiled at the center of her core with each lascivious contact.

Her sensuous daze was rudely interrupted by the sudden stinging sensation of being... _bitten. _On her ass cheek.

At her sharp inhale, he swiftly proceeded to soothe it with the flat of his tongue. He more than soothed it, judging by the tightening of her pussy. But that was beside the point. He had not just nibbled or nipped, but he had actually _bitten_ her ass with nary a by-your-leave. Sitting down on the however many hour long flight tonight was going to be a trial. Her ass would be sore, and then there would, of course, be all those _memories_ attached to the soreness to live through.

The bloody biting blighter was going to pay.

Before he could do the same to the other one, she flipped over to glare at him, forgetting once again her promise.

Jack retaliated by saying quite sternly, "No, Carter," as he grabbed her hands and then pinned them with one hand back above her head.

She expected him to then turn her back over so that he could resume his little marking ritual, or to even spank her. (Anna Jarvis had told her and Angie of her misfortune of discovering that this was one of Howard's proclivities).

But he did neither.

Instead, he leaned over her, his warm breath tickling her neck, as he whispered into her ear, "You want this?" while his other hand teased her slit.

She squirmed partly in embarrassment at the amount of fluid he would find down there, and partly out of desire to send his exploring digit deeper. Well, maybe he would pay later...

"Oh, you so do," he dryly chuckled.

And then he was filling her.

~A~

He slid into her, his Marge, and it was like coming home. Like he belonged.

It had been ages since he had felt that way. Yeah, sure, he had been 'one of the guys' in the office and in the trenches back in the war, but ever since that fateful night that had 'earned' him the Navy Cross, he had always felt like he had to prove something, to be the best, and had never been comfortable in his own skin as it was all such a farce. It had been a feeling that had been compounded by the presence of the self-assured, truly heroic, and ambitious _female_ agent in the office, a woman who had earned the respect of the man who had embodied heroism.

But now, with Peggy Carter looking at him, with eyes filled with desire for him – _him_, and not morally upright and uptight Susan or the Ghost of Red-White-and-Blue Past – and her body welcoming him in and clinging to him at any hint of leaving, he felt anchored and almost at peace.

Almost, except for the driving need to, well, to make her want him, to need him, like he needed her. He wanted her to say she was _his_, his to love, his to defend. His, as much as he was hers.

And boy, was he ever hers. As hard as he had fought it, it was inevitable. The first crack had been when she had included him into her circle of camaraderie with 107th, that night asking him to share his war stories, as if he were equal in her eyes to them, her elite war buddies. And then, her quiet acceptance of him, even when she found out he wasn't.

After that it had been fast descent into 'The Fall' that poets run on about.

It had been impossible not to get all twisted up about this unreachable girl. Not when she had not begrudged him the position of interim-Chief, even after he had accepted the praise of the Senator. Not when she had given him subtle 'atta-boy' smiles when he did something right or subtle suggestions of alternatives when he effed-up.

Not when she had commiserated with him for getting passed over by a well-connected 'wanker' over a bottle of her personal stash of bourbon.

Not when she consistently went toe-to-toe with him on how their operations should be run, rather than washing her hands of him and going behind his back like she did most others.

Not when she repeatedly requested to be paired up with him on this hunt.

And not when she had confessed to him in the dark, one night on stake-out, 'Jack, you and I are a team. You don't second guess me, and I know you have my back.'

So all the feelings that she had made him feel, willingly or no, he wanted to make her feel too.

So he held her hands pinned above her head, reveling in the fact that she, the proud and self-sufficient Peggy Carter, was surrendering herself to him in such a way, and stretched himself across her.

He ground himself into her, burying himself deep and rubbing himself up against her pearl, and never, not once did he take his eyes off of hers. He bored his gaze into hers, hoping that he could ram past her steely façade to her gooey soft center, the one that was just peaking from the depths of her dark chocolate brown eyes.

He hoped to see that soft look of adoration, that dark look of longing, that fiery glint of challenge turned his way many times over. If he was lucky, for years to come.

But today, right now, she was his. Her red lips with their strawberry jam taste were his. Her soft panting and breathy cries were his. Her silky, glistened with sweat body that was arching, writhing against his own was his. Her rosy-tipped peaks that were shooting sparks to his groin every time he raked himself across her were his. That spot just below her ear that made her squirm and curse his name was his.

She was his.

It was never more certain than when beautiful, expressive eyes widened and her red full lips formed an 'O', before she let out a whining keen of "Oh, Ja-a-ack!"

Her body tightened and exploded, her inner walls rippling around him, squeezing him, bringing him to the point of ecstasy.

But he did not lose himself – not until on her last shudder, she gasped, "Yours, Jack. I'm yours."

And that is when his Fall hit bottom, and he became wholly and completely hers – forever.

~A~

When he plunged into her, there was once again a brief ache, primarily due to the soreness of last night's activities, but then her body adjusted. It welcomed him in like a greedy – well, for the lack of a better term – whore.

He ground against her. She arched against him. And waves and waves of undulating pleasure rippled out from her center.

While her lower body strove to crash against his, her legs scrabbling to get purchase on the bedding to make this happen or digging into his back to keep him _just right there_, her upper body was pliant. Her arms had no desire to wrest themselves from his grasp. Were they held there by his piercing indigo stare? She did not know.

She did find it incredibly difficult to look away. This was in part, because his eyes and their earnest expression were so captivating, but also because she thought he was attempting to pierce past her shields and seek out every nook and cranny of her soul and she _wanted_ him to.

She was tired of fighting, tired of being on-guard all the time, tired of being altogether and poised. She wanted to _break_, and she wanted this man to do it, to be there to pick up the pieces.

So she surrendered control.

She didn't resist when his free hand quit its caressing roving ways to guide her leg up and over his shoulder so that he could pound in deeper.

She didn't resist when he told her to 'quit abusing that perfect rosebud mouth of yours' as she tried to muffle the sound of her over-enthusiastic responses. _"I want you, my wanton darling, to disturb the goddamn neighbors' goddamn Sunday afternoon naps."_

And she didn't resist, not one objection, not even when he growled out: _"Mine. You're mine" _over and over again.

She was his.

She stared into his blues and laid herself bare, daring him to take it all.

And when he did, she felt as if all the pleasure points of her nervous system were exploding like fireworks – no, like one of those fiery orbs of Stark's.

On the last aftershock that racked her overwrought body, she whispered like a prayer: "Yours, Jack. I am yours."

Her breathy admission broke him, and he poured himself into her, flooding into her, until she was warm and sticky both inside and out.

Much to her surprise, she didn't care. She was too busy relishing his strong yet limp body covering hers, and being able to run her now free hands through his sweat-soaked blond hair and up and down his back in soothing gentle motions.

She particularly delighted in the feeling of his hot breath puffing across her skin, as he asked, "What time do we need to leave here to meet our contact before going to the airport?"

"Five? No, six, I think. We are to meet him for the late supper at that club," she replied vaguely, her thoughts still addle-pated.

He noticed and chuckled smugly into her neck, but before she could pinch his arse in retaliation, he rolled off of her, promising sleepily:

"Oh good, that will give us enough time to refuel, so that I can teach you the wonders of water conservation…"

Her squawk of protests were drowned out by his contented snores.

She stared at him, mouth agape for a moment, before muttering exasperatedly, "Stereotypical man."

But Peggy Carter couldn't be too irate at the man, because, for better or for worse, Jack Thompson was her man, snores and smug bastardry and all.

Until fatal bullet, knife in the dark, or Scrabble-war induced stroke did them part. Amen. God help her.

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**A/N: **Up next, the fluffy epilogue that contains a glimpse into the future. Kindly, do let me know what you have thought so far of this pair's journey, and for those of you who have reviewed, faved, and followed - Thank you ; )


	6. Encore

Six: Encore

"So do you think Stark would be proud of his boy after that little stunt?" asked the thin man with thinning white hair as he turned off the television. Tony Stark had just announced that his company would no longer be producing weapons.

Before his plump curly gray-haired companion could reply, another woman with less hair than the man shrilled, "Hey, I was watching that!"

"Oh, now it's just going to be the talking heads gassing out of their asses, Bettie," the man sniffed dismissively.

"It's Bernie," quietly corrected his companion. The man waved dismissively in reply or perhaps in goodbye as the other woman wheeled herself out of the day room in a huff, but his companion did not see either exchange, as her gaze was fixated upon the board in front of her. She did, however, answer his original question: "Yes, he would've."

The elderly gentleman made a rude scoffing sound that earned him a sharp-eyed glare, which was followed by a biting retort of "We are talking of the same Howard who voided all contracts with the Army after the abominable use of his inventions in the war and who, with admittedly less than selfless motives, envisioned using Steve's blood for curing of diseases rather than more super-soldiers?"

The gentleman looked as if he wanted to say something in reply, his sharp blue eyes scrutinizing the Starks' staunch defender. Eventually, he shrugged one bony shoulder, saying, "Well, at least that old Brit chap of yours would have been proud."

"Jarvis would have been over the moon," she agreed mildly, adding with an amused quirk of her heavily-rouged lips, "Even while he sniffed and tutted about how 'young master Stark' needed to learn the truth of things the hard way just like his father."

There was no reply to this, as the gentleman was too busy scowling at the triple-word score that the woman had just earned for herself. His scowl quickly turned into one of his 'crazy as a loon' gleeful smirks (or so the woman was fond of disparaging), as he triumphantly laid out his tiles and crowed, "'Quixotry'! I told you that I could do it. Now hand over The Chip, sweetheart."

Her gnarled wrinkled hand defensively grabbed at the blue-white poker chip dangling around her neck, even as she grumbled petulantly, "The bet was for the word 'quixotic'."

"Oh come now, Marge. Don't be such a stickler," he wheedled. "'Quixotic' is worth 26 points, while this is 27 points."

He was right. And 'Marge' knew it. It was just that she was reluctant to give up The Chip, _their _chip. Jack had given it to her on _the_ night, the night that Angie had incorrigibly and dramatically dubbed as...

~ The Night of Three Little Words~

It had been yet another dark and stormy night. Angie was due back home soon from one of her after curtain call parties, and Peggy was hastily picking up Jack's clothes and tossing them at him. Not that she was at all embarrassed about Angie seeing him there. But rather, she did not feel that her friend should be subjected to the evidence of their own 'after mission' parties.

She was in the midst of tossing Jack his pants when _it_ fell out.

Hearing something clatter on the floor, she glanced down and saw a blue-white poker chip. It was the one from the casino in which they had caught a Leviathan message courier several weeks ago. But what it had been doing in that set of trousers, when she knew he had just gotten this pair last week, was beyond her reckoning.

She didn't really care though to understand the packrat whimsies of her man – at least not until he tried to hastily snatch it out of her hand and _blushed_ while he did so.

Then, she did care, and she just as hastily snatched it out of his reach, asking cautiously, "Jack…?"

"_Marge…_" he taunted, even as he hand rubbed the back of his neck abashedly. No pants meant no pockets to conveniently stuff twitchy fingers into.

She arched an eyebrow.

He glared at her, but then switched gears from silently resistant to teasingly offensive. Smirking, he declared, "I bet you that very chip that you'll never guess why."

Her eyes narrowed as she assessed his obnoxious level of confidence, before declaring daringly, "You're on."

On pieces of stationary that she collected from the nearby secretary desk, they each wrote down their answer and then switched papers.

When she read his, a smile broke out across her face. She had won.

_'It is the night I knew I loved you no, ifs, ands, or buts.'_

"How the hell did you know?!" Jack howled in consternation upon reading hers. "I mean really, Carter, the exact words and all."

She smiled softly at him, answering teasingly, "You talk in your sleep, you know, especially on stakeouts." More seriously and before the topic could be derailed by a debate over the veracity of her accusation, she asked, "Why that night?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It was the night I realized that I no longer needed to know if you loved me beyond 'I think/I might'. I just loved you – I mean, I do love you."

For some reason, hearing those words spoken out loud and while he was conscious made her go all light-headed and weak-kneed like some empty-headed school girl. To combat this, she charged towards him and forcefully kissed him. His tongue met hers and they dueled until they needed to resurface for air.

In between pants, she asserted, "I love …you too … idiot…But just for the …record…I get to keep…the chip."

"Until the next bet, sweetheart."

~A~

And that is what they did for years – making ridiculous bets about ridiculous things, all for the honor of possessing 'The Chip'.

Jack knew that their game was one of the few bright things in Carter's long dark years of S.H.I.E.L.D. service.

And Peggy knew that he knew, so she played along, saying, "Fine. Take your 27 points and The Chip, but just know that I'll have it back when Tony Stark surpasses his father."

"What at being a decent human being? Can't be that hard, as the bar was set pretty low," he scoffed, even as he accepted the chip and attached it to his pocket watch.

"No," she corrected, "at weaponless inventions."

He held out his wrinkled hand to her, declaring gamely, "You're on."

After shaking his hand, she was unable to remove herself from his grasp, mostly because she did not want to, as he was gently caressing the inside of her wrists with his rough calloused fingers.

She did not understand it, but for some reason when those blue eyes of his looked at her old overly plump and wrinkled body, they still saw her as beautiful.

When she herself looked at him, she no longer saw the 'dreamboat'. She just saw 'her Jack'. Her Jack, and he was still here.

They continued the rest of their game like that, holding hands across the table and bantering back and forth, reveling in the fact that even after years of ruined lives and shed blood, they had managed to achieve success – they were still together, here at the dentured end.

"Finis"

"We agreed no Latin words."

"Oh, you're only saying that because there are no more H's to lay down, Jack."

"Touché, sweetheart."

"Besides, 'finis' is English."

"Is not."

"How much do you want to bet?"

F

I

F – I – N – I – S

A

L

L

Y

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**A/N: **Well, dearies, this is the end of this tale, but I am pondering doing another, a series of one-shots perhaps. If interested, please let me know what you think. And as always, I hope you have enjoyed my offering to this fandom : )


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